


The Real Ghostbusters

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant





	The Real Ghostbusters

Sometimes Becky wakes up naked sprawled over Chuck, her feet buried in couch cushions between his own socked ankles, head tucked in the hollow of his shoulder, mouth damp against the edge of scruff along his jaw. His arms surround her, palming scraps of envelope or rumpled napkins smooth against her back—the hard nudge of the pen pressing in and around the dips of her spine as he scribbles down his last vision—eyes bloodshot, rimmed with ribbons of red, heavy behind his thick-framed glasses, lips mouthing the words.

Sometimes, if he pauses to chew on his pen, already freckled with dented plastic, she’ll suckle his pulse point and he’ll raise his arms, and she’ll roll off him, pass him the hard-covered book they use for such occasions, and he’ll keep writing even as he shakes out the cramps in his hand. She’ll shower. She’ll go to work. And sometimes, when she gets home, Chuck is passed out on the couch, a bottle of alcohol pressed between his legs, a pile of papers beside the computer.

She’ll type them out for him while he sleeps until he wakes up. Then they’ll get dinner together.

They talk about Becky’s day at the library. They talk about the movies they’d like to see at the theatre, but they never do. They talk about nothing. They talk in silence until Becky puts her hand over Chuck’s and squeezes it. Sometimes she’ll say, “Do you mind if I stay over again” and if the answer is yes, she’ll kiss his hand until they get home and they have sex together on the couch until they pass out and, because the couch is too narrow for two to lie side by side, one of them always ends up on the other.

Or, if she wants some space to herself, she says, “I’m going back to mine. See you—” and she’ll give him a time and sometimes Chuck says, “No how about this day instead” and Becky will maybe say yes and maybe say no depending on how much laundry she has to do, how many non carver edlund books she wants to read, what television she wants to watch, how much she wants to sleep on a bed that’s not papered over with draft upon draft of Supernatural—

whether she wants, she needs to troll on her samlicker81 account, even though she feels guilty about that now, because of the real Sam Winchester, but sometimes—when she sees what’s about to happen—she has to believe, she has to, that it doesn’t have to be this way.

It’s not that she’s consuming them for entertainment.

She’s making social commentary on the non-presence of God.

God should be ashamed of himself, she thinks desperately as she writes about Sam and Dean and now the angel Castiel until she’s hollow on the inside, until all her silly words carve her out like jacko-lanterns, until all her silly words splash against the screen like messy pumpkin fruit, seeds never taking root, never growing into something better with an ending that isn’t bloody.

Then she’ll have a good cry because it’s the end of the world and she and Chuck, they have front row seats, and all they can do is hold each other’s hands, cover each other’s eyes, and feel it wash over them, pressed into their skin like tattoos, inked into their bones.


End file.
